


A Week of Recipes

by threeplusfire



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Chimera AU, Gen, M/M, Multi, Star Wars AU, all the aus, another rock band au, food prompt week, retail drinkers AU, thieves and baker au, venture capitalist AU, weird scifi AU thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:44:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: Short AU pieces inspired by a week's worth of recipe prompts!





	1. Blackberry Ginger cocktail

Trott tucked his name tag in his satchel, and ran his fingers through his hair. Leaning against a table in the breakroom, he shrugged out of his cardigan and stuffed it into his bag.

“Finally,” he sighed, tapping out a quick text to Smith. He was done with the day, and according to the schedule, he didn’t have to back for 36 hours. Hopefully by Thursday morning, he’d have restored his patience for the prom season, and not feel like he was about to stab someone in the face with his eyeliner pencil.

He checked his own eyes in his pocket mirror. Impulsively, Trott added little wings, making it a bit more daring than the more conservative look he usually wore at work. They couldn’t really fault the assistant manager in charge of the makeup and perfume counters for wearing makeup if it looked immaculate. But once he was off the clock, Trott liked to make it a bit more interesting. He’d just spent eight hours showing teenage girls how to do dramatic eyeliner, he might as well have some too.

The phone chimed with Smith’s text, and Trott smiled. 

_ Tuesday night drinking Trott??? :P _

_ Fuck off I’ve had a day can you drive home? _

_ Yeah you’re gonna buy mcds on the way _

_ Thanks sunshine see you after work _

The uneven sidewalk outside was crowded with late afternoon shoppers, mothers with strollers, and high school kids swarming the Starbucks. Trott passed the parking garage, heading instead for the row of restaurants down the block from the department store square. He walked quickly past the overpriced steakhouse, and the awful fusion place that kept failing the health inspection, according to the gossip Trott got from one of his coworkers dating a server there. Trott pulled open the door to the newest place on the block, his new favorite happy hour spot. He breezed past the hostess stand with a smile, and headed straight to the bar. They had decent specials, even if the actual dinner menu was a disaster of overpriced entrees with no rhyme or reason. Plus they did a discount for service workers from the shopping center. Trott slung his bag over the back of the chair and hoisted himself into the tall seat. 

“What can I get you?” Ross put a napkin down in front of him, and smiled. The cute bartender certainly helped improve his day. If Trott was honest, that was at least half the appeal of coming here instead of the goofy fake California beach place. 

“Save me,” Trott implored dramatically. 

“Long day?”

“Prom season.”

“Ouch.” Ross winced in sympathy. 

“I need to obliterate myself.”

“Are you driving yourself home?” Ross asked, rolling up the sleeves of his black button down shirt. 

“Nah, Smith is closing and he’ll drive me home.” Trott leaned on the bar and gave Ross his most flirtatious smile. “So get me drunk, because I have tomorrow off.”

“How do you feel about blackberries?”

“Blackberries? I like blackberries.”

“The kitchen got way too many of them for some reason, so I talked Simon into letting me have some for the bar.” 

Trott put his chin on his hand, watching Ross work. He liked this bartender, who seemed to enjoy his work and was pretty good at the job. Smith and Trott were still betting on whether he had a girlfriend or a boyfriend at home. 

Ross smashed the berries into a shaker full of vodka and lime juice. It made a nice purplish color over the ice in a tall glass, with some mint leaves trapped between the cubes. He poured in some spicy ginger ale, and swirled it around.

“Here you are.” Ross set the glass in front of Trott and popped one of the tiny cocktail straws into it. 

“It’s gorgeous.” Trott took a generous swallow, and sighed happily.

“I know you’re usually a margarita drinker, but these are pretty good.” Ross popped a berry in his mouth. 

“It is pretty good,” Trott agreed. “Keep ‘em coming, sunshine.”

 

* * *

 

After his shift, Smith found Trott in the bar explaining to a group of suburban women crowded around his chair how to tell if their Louis Vuitton handbags were fakes. They were wide eyed, almost shouting their elation and shock as he examined their bags to point out miniscule details.

“It’s a gorgeous fake though, most people would never ever know,” Trott said confidently, handing the bag back to a blond woman in a bright pink wrap dress. “How much did you pay for it?”

“$75,” she answered, sipping at her wine spritzer. One of her friends groaned enviously.

“See? You did great!” Trott beamed at her and clinked his glass against hers. Her friends were all anxiously peering at their bags.

“How many drinks has he had?” Smith asked the bartender. It was that hot guy again, the one with the spiky hair and pretty eyes. They didn’t wear nametags here, and Smith tried to remember his name. Rob? Maybe? Smith tugged at the collar of his polo shirt, and wished he’d changed before coming in here.

“Well I gave up and just made a pitcher after three, and he’s halfway through that,” the bartender sighed. But he smiled at Smith, and filled a glass with ice. “He said you were coming to drive him home.”

“Fucking Trott,” Smith groaned. He was glad at least the bartender seemed to keep an eye on him. Drunk Trott sometimes turned into Loud, Very Impulsive Trott. 

“On the house for all designated drivers.” The bartender pushed a soda towards him, with a cocktail sword full of cherries.

“Thanks mate.” 

“Ross, can you make me - Smith!” Trott beamed, a bit drunkenly at Smith. “You’re here!”

“Hey Trott.” Smith squeezed past a woman in a skintight magenta dress to give Trott a hug. “Have you been here since you got off work?”

“Waiting for you,” Trott laughed.

“Getting drunk cause you want to flirt with the hot bartender, more like.” Smith was gratified to see Ross flush, and hasten to make another round of margaritas for a server.

“Like you wouldn’t do the same,” Trott said, raising his eyebrows. “He’s adorable.”

“Someone has to be sober enough to drive home.”

Trott just hummed and leaned into Smith, sipping at his blackberry cocktail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackberry and Ginger cocktail recipe  
> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/blackberry-and-ginger-cocktail-51242240>


	2. Spicy Caramelized Cashews

Smith sat on the ramp of the ship, eating a bag of nuts and watching the sunset. The far horizon held the last glow of daylight, as well as the rising twin moons. They were tiny, far smaller than the moon on the planet he called home. But here they were, for the time being. His mother volunteered herself for a new mission, and Smith begged to come along. Better than staying behind, and not having any chance at all to fly.

It had been a good choice, he thought. This place was a lot more interesting than home. Smith squinted in the twilight, watching a figure walking from the building at the end of the landing pads. He crunched another handful of nuts between his teeth, sweet and spicy. He couldn’t stop eating them. Just about all the time, Alex Smith was ravenous. His mother would ruffle his hair and crack jokes about him growing too tall to fit in a ship. It embarrassed Smith, who was taller than all his friends now.

Trott walked swiftly, purposefully, like he had any good reason to be out on the landing pad.Most everyone should be at dinner now, in the big canteen. He hoped his mother was busy enough and wouldn’t come looking for him.

“Hey.” Smith licked the salt from his fingers, and the lingering taste of syrup mixed with pepper. 

“Why are we meeting way out here?” Trott asked. He looked at the ship, clearly unimpressed. It made Smith feel slightly indignant. It was a great ship, especially with all the work they’d put into it. 

“Because there’s no one to bother us.” Smith held out the paper sack. “Hungry?” 

“A little,” Trott admitted. He nibbled at the nuts, nose crinkling at the burst of heat under the sweet coating. Smith took the opportunity to stare at him. Trott’s tight leggings and short tunic showed off the muscled lines of his calves and thighs. The hunger in Smith’s stomach shifted into a different feeling, and his face felt hot.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Smith rose, and gestured for Trott to follow.

It wasn’t particularly large for a freighter, but that wasn’t the point. It was fitted with a variety of aftermarket modifications to make the unassuming transport ship exceptionally fast and well armed. Smith’s mom always muttered about some pilot and hot wired engines, and something about a Kessel run record. Smith had long since tuned out about it, focusing instead on learning all the ins and outs of the ship. He could fly it almost as well as her now, he thought. Almost.

“And these are the passenger quarters…” Smith slid open a door to the small room. Trott glanced around curiously. Smith had chosen the compartment he would have been sleeping in, if his mother hadn’t insisted they take the offered room in the dormitory at the base.

“You take a lot of passengers?” he asked, running his fingers over the wall. 

“Sometimes.” Smith shrugged, and sprawled out on the bed built into the wall. There were only a couple nuts let, and Smith licked his finger to get the last few peppery crumbs out of the bag. He sort of regretted skipping dinner. But time alone with Trott was too good to pass up. It was hard enough escaping both his mother and Trott’s teacher.

Trott climbed onto the bed beside him, and Smith tugged on his braid with a playful smirk.

“Stop that,” Trott said testily, swatting at Smith’s hand. Instead Smith pulled him down for a kiss. It wasn’t quite as suave as Smith hoped, but it intensified the longing. He hadn’t stopped thinking about Trott all day, and about how they could get some time alone.

They broke apart when Smith’s stomach growled. Trott laughed, and pushed him down on his back.

“You taste like those stupid spicy cashews,” Trott murmured, his lips against Smith’s neck.

“Should have grabbed more,” Smith groaned. “I’m so hungry.”

“Feel free to go leave, and have dinner.” 

“No!” Smith clutched at Trott. He rolled them over in the tight space, trying not to whack his head or his elbows. Trott let him do it, only pulling his hair out of the way. He laughed, a bit breathless as Smith kissed him over and over, lips on his cheek and his mouth and his chin and his neck.

“Maybe I’ll just eat you,” Smith growled. Trott burst into a short, sharp laugh.

“You’re filthy.” 

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want a blow job?”   


“Well, what are you waiting for?” Trott pushed down on Smith’s shoulders. Smith wriggled between Trott's legs, and Trott propped himself up against the bulkhead. The built in bed wasn’t quite long enough for Smith to stretch out fully, so he kicked his feet up and hoped he wasn’t leaving boot prints on the wall. He nuzzled at Trott’s stomach, pulling down the waistband of his leggings to kiss the dark line of hair below his navel.

What he lacked in actual experience, Smith made up for in enthusiasm and guesswork. He’d read a few novels that offered tantalizing details about the actual acts, though most elided over how he was meant to get Trott down his throat without gagging or choking. His heart pounded in his ears, and Smith shifted to a better position.

Trott’s quiet grunt as Smith kissed his way to the base of his cock ratcheted up the warmth in Smith. He felt dizzy with arousal and delight, listening to Trott’s breathing and the muffled sounds he made. 

“Smith-” Trott choked on his name, and gripped Smith’s head with one hand. Smith moaned softly as Trott pushed his head down, and tried to hasten his movements. It was harder and harder to concentrate, with Trott’s cock in his mouth and trying to coordinate his hands with his lips and tongue.

“Shit I’m close, _I’m - fuck_ , Smith…” Trott panted, his fingers tangled in Smith’s hair. So focused on trying to get Trott as deep as he could, Smith didn’t pull away in time. He gagged a little when Trott came, some of it dripping from his mouth. Reflexively, he swallowed some and the strange, bitter taste almost made him choke again. Smith wrapped his hand around Trott’s cock, squeezing him gently as he finished. Propped on his elbow, Smith wiped at his mouth and made a face.

“Damn, Trott.” Smith grimaced, and wiggled out from between Trott’s legs so he could spoon up against Trott in the narrow bed. “That tasted terrible.”

Trott laughed softly.

“We can probably still get something from the canteen.” He tugged Smith’s arm around him. “Let’s lay here for a minute, and we’ll go feed you.”

Smith nuzzled his face into Trott’s hair, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/caramelized-cashews-with-cayenne-357295>


	3. Best Blueberry Muffins

Ross sat cross legged on the couch, typing up the bibliography for his paper on Cold War foreign policy. If he never had to slog through reading anything from Henry Kissinger again, he could die happy. It was a great class and he liked the topic. But Kissinger’s essays were the bane of his existence this semester, making his eyes glaze over or filling him with exasperation.

The door banged open and Ross didn’t even need to look up to know it was Smith. He always let the door slam. Plus Trott was already asleep in the bedroom. 

“Hey.” Smith flopped down on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. Ross eyed his boots but didn’t say anything. That was Trott’s battle to fight.

“Hey.” Ross quick saved, and thought about changing the font to make his paper look just a bit longer. He was tired, and it was late.

“Can you make blueberry muffins?” Smith asked abruptly. Ross looked at him, surprised.

“Like, right now?”

“No, just, do you know how to make them?”

“Yeah, muffins aren’t hard.” Ross shrugged.

“Can you make a dozen of them for me?”

“What do you need a dozen muffins for, Smith?” Ross wondered aloud.

“You know that old guy I’m kinda helping out?”

“The one you were going to rob?” Ross laughed. “You’re a terrible thief, Smith.”

“Fuck off, who got you that computer?” Smith looked pointedly at Ross’ lap. “Anyways, that guy. Gene. We were kinda talking about stuff, and he mentioned muffins and I thought…” Smith trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Ross wondered what it was that made Smith care so much about strangers. After all, Smith had tried to rob him and Ross ended up living on Smith and Trott’s sofa.

“I’ll make you muffins,” Ross said seriously. 

 

* * *

 

On Sunday just before noon, Ross stood somewhat nervously beside Smith holding a tupperware container full of his best blueberry muffins. He’d gone all out with fresh blueberries, and making the tops crunchy with a little extra sprinkle of sugar just before they went in the oven. He had enough blueberries for a double batch, which was lucky because Smith ate two before the second batch came out of the oven. Ross left Trott with a plate of them, watching a movie on the couch. 

Smith rang the doorbell, and knocked heavily on the door. After a wait where Ross began to wonder if they’d have to break in, they heard footsteps.

“Look, just go along with it, okay?” Smith whispered hastily.

“Go along with what?”

“He kinda thinks I’m his grandson.”

“Smith!” Ross turned in shock. “What the f-” Ross bit his tongue as the door opened. 

“Alec, my boy, how are you?” The old man stepped backward, waving them into the house.

“Doing good Gene, doing good.” Smith stepped forward and hugged him. “I brought my friend Ross with me, he’s a baker and he’s got muffins.”

“Really?” Gene squinted at Ross. He wasn’t quite as tall as Smith, but maybe that was the slight stoop. His hair was silvery and thin, but cut neatly, and he wore sweatpants and a faded tshirt. Gene waved them inside, and walked slowly back towards the kitchen. 

The inside of the house was cluttered, full of furniture that dated back decades in style. Framed photos hung all over the walls. The front room was dim, but the kitchen curtains were open and sunlight brightened the room. Ross marveled at the avocado green and harvest gold appliances. A coffee maker bubbled and steamed on the counter. He carefully set the muffins down on the little kitchen table.

“Did you make those?” Gene asked, peering at the container full of muffins in blue striped paper. He pulled out coffee mugs from a cabinet by the sink. 

“Yes, sir.” Ross nodded, feeling shy.

“Here, I’ll get that Gene, go sit and have a muffin.” Ross watched Smith move around the kitchen, clearly at ease. Ross settled at the table too, opposite Gene. 

“Alec and I were just talking about blueberry muffins,” Gene said. He picked on up, carefully peeling the paper back. “How his mom would make the ones out of the box, the just add water mix. You do that, Ross?”

“No sir, I have a recipe from work.”

“You a cook?” Gene raised an eyebrow, biting into the muffin.

“A baker.” Ross startled as Smith set a mug full of coffee in front of him.

“Mmm.” Gene closed his eyes, chewing. Smith put a mug in front of him, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly before taking a seat. He watched Gene with barely concealed amusement.

“How are they?” Smith asked, taking another muffin. Ross sipped at the coffee, recognizing the taste of overly strong Folgers. 

“These are the best damn muffins I’ve had since your grandma passed.” Gene opened his eyes and looked at Ross. “You must be a hell of a baker, son.”

Ross smiled.

“I try, sir.”

“A good baker, and polite!” Gene looked at Smith. “You better hang onto this one, Alec.”

To Ross’ eternal consternation and amusement, Smith blushed. He didn’t think Smith actually could.

“Aww Gene, we’re not-”

Gene just waved a hand and winked at Ross.

“You don’t have to worry, I’m not gonna judge. All that matters is you’re happy.” 

“Sure,” Smith said awkwardly, and Ross sipped at the coffee, trying to not burst out laughing. “Anyways, I thought I’d mow the yard while I was here, your grass is getting pretty wild out back.”

“It is,” Gene sighed. “I’d appreciate the help, by the time I get going in the morning it’s already too hot out there.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Smith stood up.

“Put on a hat, you’ll burn,” Gene called as Smith banged out the back door. “Just like his mother, so fair and burns right up.”

“You’re his mother’s father?” Ross asked, curious about this strange turn. He wondered how the hell this started. Gene nodded, looking melancholy.

“His momma was always a wild one,” he sighed. “She took off when Alec was still young, chasing his dad, and I hadn’t seen him until now. It does the heart good to have some family around again.”

Ross wondered if the good this did outweighed Smith’s lie. This wasn’t his grandfather. But there he was, out there starting an ancient mower and pushing it across the wide backyard. Clearly Smith had been over here a lot, enough to have a conversation where Gene reminisced about muffins. 

“He’s a good man,” Ross said, watching Smith mow. Gene picked up a second muffin, admiring the sugary crust.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/jordan-marsh-inspired-blueberry-muffins-56389811>


	4. Beer Battered Onion Rings

After a show, Chris Trott felt like the adrenaline was electricity in his veins. He bounded off the stage, surprisingly energetic for someone who just performed for a couple hours in front of a sold out, screaming crowd. A sold out, screaming hometown crowd but even so. He knew the crash would come soon, and to mitigate the feeling Trott cracked open a beer. He drank while he peeled himself out of sweat soaked clothes, wiping himself down with a towel now streaked with eye makeup and glitter. Glad their tour rider specified lots of towels, Trott spread one on the sofa and flopped on it naked. He set the beer on the floor in easy reach and closed his eyes. Just for a minute, then he’d get up and put on some clothes.

“You should really lock the door if you’re going to be naked,” Ross said, snapping Trott out of his doze. 

“Stop looking at my ass.” 

“Put some pants on then.” Ross threw a pair of jeans at him. “I’m starving.”

Trott opened his mouth with a witty, obscene retort, but a shirt hit him square in the face.

“I’m not interested in your tiny dick,” Ross continued. “I want hashbrowns and pancakes and bacon and eggs before I die of starvation.”

“You know there’s a giant bowl of M&Ms for you, right?” Trott’s voice was muffled as he dressed.

Ross gestured impatiently, leaning against the wall. The bowl of candy was half empty at this point in the night.

“Yeah, yeah, but I am going to quit the band if we don’t get some real food now.” He folded his arms, the sleeves of his shirt tight against the muscles of his arms. 

“I’m sure I could find another drummer like that,” Trott joked. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning at his reflection in the dressing room mirror. A few stray flecks of glitter still dappled his cheeks.

“Not another drummer who likes putting up with you.” Ross loomed behind him in the mirror. Trott laughed.

“Come on, sunshine, let’s go eat. Where’s Kim?”

 

* * *

 

One of their favorite post show rituals was cramming into a diner booth, and stuffing themselves with food. Trott enjoyed watching his bass player and drummer compete to see who could eat the most pancakes in one sitting. Kim and Ross were currently engaged in trying to take a bite of everything on the plate simultaneously, piling fried eggs and hashbrowns on top of bacon, sausage and pancakes.

Trott was taking it easy, with a burger and onion rings. This place had the good kind, the breading crisp and crackly just the way he liked it, over thick slices of yellow onion. He licked his fingers, enjoying the peppery tang and slight heat. 

“Refills?” the waiter asked, holding a water pitcher. The name tag on his apron said “Alex” in block letters. Trott held out his water glass. He tried not to stare, but the guy was cute in a scruffy sort of way.

“Yeah, can I get another coke?” Ross looked up briefly from his plate.

“Sure thing. You need anything else?”

“Nah,” Kim shook her head. She gave the waiter a dazzling smile, and he returned it. Trott wondered if he recognized them.

“Your onion rings are fantastic,” Trott said, wiping his hands. Alex glanced down at him, still smiling. His eyes were a disconcerting bright blue.

“It’s the beer,” Alex said. “Dunno why, but it really makes ‘em.” He hurried off to pour more coffee for a couple other tables. The late crowd was thin at 2am on a Friday, but they were on the outskirts of the city. The highways were peppered with 24 hour truck stops and diners, and half of them were even pretty decent. It minimized the chances of being recognized while Ross was stuffing his face.

“I think someone’s got a crush,” Kim sing-songed. Trott threw a napkin across the table at her.

“Oh fuck off.”

“Maybe you should ask him if he’ll take you in back, show you how the onion rings are made.”

“Cock rings,” Ross mumbled around a mouth of pancake. “Don’t burn your dick, Trott.”

“He is pretty cute, in that tall, dumb sort of way. Kind of like Ross.” Kim took another bite of her eggs. Ross choked on his food, and Kim slapped him on the back.

“You are the _worst_ friends,” Trott groaned theatrically. 

 

* * *

 

They sat in the booth, relaxing and talking about what they would do now that their mini tour was over. Alex stopped by to refill their drinks, and bring Ross a chocolate milkshake. Trott watched him work, easily carrying around trays full of breakfast platters and filling up coffee. There were clearly a lot of late night regulars, and Alex seemed to be friendly with most of them. 

Trott wanted to get into a studio right away and start working on new stuff, but Ross and Kim both pleaded for a break. After all, they’d just spent a month in nonstop close quarters. Kim threatened to quit if she had to continue smelling them day in and day out. 

Their waiter stopped by the table again, but not carrying a water pitcher or wearing his apron. He had a leather jacket slung over his arm instead.

“Hey, sorry to bother you-” Alex began. Kim raised her eyebrows, a smile already forming.

“But my shift’s done and I’m heading out. Don’t worry about your meal, it’s on me.”

Ross made a puzzled face, draining last of his soda.

“What?” Trott looked up at him.

“I missed your show, couldn’t get off work, so I just thought I’d get your dinner,” Alex said. His cheeks were pink, Trott noticed. “So it’s on me. I love your stuff.”

“Thanks man.” Ross lifted his glass. Across the booth, Kim slouched down so she could kick Trott under the table.

“Wait, hang on a second…” Trott slid out of the booth. Kim grinned, a tight, triumphant smile as he turned away from them and pulled out his wallet.

“You didn’t even let us tip like rock stars,” Trott joked. Standing, he realized Alex was even taller than Ross. Trott wondered if he was developing a type.

“That’s okay, really, it was my pleasure.” Alex tried to wave him away as Trott shoved a couple twenties at him. 

“No, just. Here.” Trott grabbed a napkin off the empty table next to them. He wondered if it was weird, to give his number to a guy just because they had a mutual love of onion rings. It probably wouldn’t be the worst dating choice he’d make, Trott told himself.

“Gimmie a call on your next day off?” Trott hoped he didn’t sound desperate. Alex stared at him for a moment, his expression somewhere between surprised and elated. “Or I’ll just show up here and eat onion rings until I see you again.”

“Okay,” Alex laughed. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/beer-battered-onion-rings-51259730>


	5. Spaghetti and Meatballs

The smell of garlic was strong, and there was a sweet note to it from the red pepper. Sips breathed in deeply, leaning over the pot. There was a point, indescribable really. It was just a moment when the garlic and pepper smell formed a glorious single smell. There wasn’t an exact time, but it happened quickly so it was better to stand right there at the stove. Sips took another deep breath, and dumped in the bowl of chopped tomatoes along with the rest of the spices. He added half a cup of wine, just because. It felt lucky.

Once the sauce was well mixed and set to a slow simmer, Sips put aside his spoon and poured himself a glass of wine. He carried it out to the tiny balcony of his apartment and sat down on the creaky folding chair. The ashtray was empty, part of his weekly cleaning routine. Sips tugged the pack out of his pocket, savoring the smell of fresh tobacco and paper. It was just after one in the afternoon, and the light was bright and clear after the morning’s rain. The first drag of the cigarette filled him with satisfaction. Sips put his feet up on the railing. His apartment was clean and tidy, the sauce was simmering, and there were quiet hours yet ahead. Sips felt especially decadent, drinking wine. It was just for this meal, and probably wasn’t even that fancy of a wine at $12 a bottle. But it tasted pretty decent, fruity and spicy somehow. He rolled it around his mouth, thinking it boded well for the sauce if the cheap wine was decent. It went alright with the cigarette, though really he’d prefer a Hitachino. But they didn’t sell those in the corner store here.

Sips watched a cloud, the cigarette burning slowly in his fingers. He wouldn’t mess with the sauce until he was done with it. Best not to stir it too much.

 

* * *

 

When he heard the knocking, Sips was wrist deep in a bowl of ground meats. He groaned, and scraped the meatball mix off his hands before dunking them in the sink.

“Hang on!” Sips shouted, trying to quick scrub his hands and dry them. Another knock rattled the door.

“Jeez, hold your butts,” he muttered on his breath, carrying the towel to the door.

“Sips!” Ross exclaimed brightly. Behind him, Smith waved. In his other hand was a bottle of wine. 

“Hey sweetheart, come in.” Sips bit back the disappointment that Trott hadn’t made it first. He’d hoped for a little quiet time. “How you doing, Smiffy?”

“We brought some wine.” Ross strode in breezily, the heels of his boots clicking on the lineoluem of the entrance. Sips snapped his fingers, and Ross pouted.

“I know, _I know,_ I’m taking them off.” He bent forward to unzip the high suede boots.

“Hey, Sips.” Smith shook his hand. He had already toed off his batter skate sneakers. “Smells good in here.”

“Thanks.” Sips took the bottle of wine. “You want something to drink? I have the cheap stuff open already, and I’ve got some beer in the fridge.” Sips carried the bottle into the kitchen, where he peered quickly at the sauce. Still simmering, little bubbles around the edges. Ross crowded up next to him, looking over his shoulder.

“Oh my god, Sips, how come you’ve never made this before? It smells amazing. Can I taste it?”

“Not yet,” Sips said, swatting Ross’ hand away from the spoon. “Still gotta make the meatballs. Ross, make some drinks for you and Smiffy, and then get out of the kitchen.” The little galley kitchen was crowded with two people, and Sips didn’t trust Ross not to start eating things.

“I could make meatballs,” Ross offered, looking at the bowl.

“No, _you’re_ going to make some drinks and then you and Smith are going to entertain me while I make the meatballs.” Sips pushed Ross gently out of the way.

“Special technique for handling balls?” Smith joked from the living room.

“Damn right.” Sips ground up a bit more pepper, and tossed it over the meat mix. He worked quickly, rolling them into small balls and stacking them on a plate. Behind him, Ross slipped by with two highball glasses full of wine. Sips wondered if he should actually buy some wine glasses. He could probably just order a few extra at work.

Just as he was browning the first batch, there was a knock. Sips smiled to himself.

“I’ll get it!” Ross jumped off the futon and bounded over to the door. Sips hoped his downstairs neighbors wouldn’t mind the noise.

“Trott!” Sips glanced over his shoulder in time to see Ross envelop Trott in a hug, and Trott’s slightly startled expression. “He’s got bread, Sips!”

“Good, I like bread.” Sips turned the meat balls, making sure they were browned on all sides before pulling them out and dropping them into the sauce. He’d cut the heat way down, just enough to keep it warm.

“How’s the cooking going?” Trott stood at the edge of the kitchen, scratching his calf with his foot. He had a grocery bag slung over his shoulder.

“Not bad at all,” Sips smiled. “Just drop the bread, you want something to drink?”

“I’m good.” Trott pulled out a golden brown loaf of french bread. “You need any help?”

“Nah.” Sips eyed the pot of water on the far burner. It was just about to the right boil, the bubbles getting larger and fatter each time he checked. Trott put a hand on Sips’ back, the briefest of touches, but it put a lightness in his heart. Sips looked over his shoulder at Trott, his serious face peering into the pot of spaghetti sauce.

“Go see what Ross and Smiffy are up to, it’s too quiet out there.” Sips leaned over, and pressed a chaste kiss to Trott’s temple.

“I’m not _doing_ anything!” Ross called out, sounding indignant.

“Don’t you get wine on my futon!” Smith shouted back. “Or you’re doing my laundry for me!”

Trott rolled his eyes at them, and Sips turned back to the stove. The sizzling smell of meatballs filled the kitchen, making his stomach rumble.

“Why spaghetti and meatballs?” Trott asked, curious.

“Why not?”

“Dunno, I just expected something more Japanese I guess.”

“I did grow up here,” Sips said with a wry smile. “And it’s easy once you get the hang of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/our-favorite-spaghetti-and-meatballs-56389489>


	6. Vanilla Buttermilk Cake with Raspberries and Orange Cream Cheese Frosting

From the front, the dress had looked so modest when he looked at it in the box delivered to his desk. The grey lace was shot through with silver threads. It was sleeveless, but the high neckline covered him completely and it was long enough to just about brush the floor. Of course it was tailored to be the right length. Of course. Ross tried not to think about it.

When he put it on, he realized the back was completely nonexistent. The neckline fit around like a collar, with tiny pearl buttons that closed snugly at the nape of his neck. The open back dipped just below his waist, enough that he had to pull his underwear down a bit so it didn’t show. Ross suspected you weren’t meant to wear anything under it at all, but he was not even going to risk that. He turned in front of the full length mirror in the office bathroom where he changed. Everyone else was gone for the day. The skirt swirled around his ankles, and Ross wished it made him feel more pleased instead of worried.

“It’s just dinner,” he said to his reflection. “You’re celebrating a business deal. That’s all. It’s fine.” His reflection didn’t look convinced. Ross washed his face, and tried to comb his hair into something presentable. Everything would be fine. The tiled floor was freezing under his feet, and Ross stepped back into his shoes.

 

* * *

 

The lace prickled, and Ross tried his best not to shift in his seat. Most of the dress was lined in something fine and whisper soft. But the edges along the open back of the dress tickled where the lace met his skin. He wanted to scratch, but there was no dignified way to do it.

At the seat next to him, Sips cut into his steak. He wore a black suit, the mandarin collar high and severe. But he did not have a tie with his shirt, and his shoes were different from the ones he wore all day in the office. Ross watched him cut the steak. That plate alone cost more than he spent all week on lunches. It was real meat too, not something from a lab like most of the stuff in the grocery store now. He could see the blood, the rare red center. The color stood out violently on the monochrome table.

Ross glanced away, at window framed in sheer white curtains. Everywhere he went, these views of the city captivated him. Before he came here, Ross had never been so high off the ground before. They were seated at a semi private table, in the back near the curving wall of glass that looked out towards the harbour. The rest of the dining room felt miles away, the sound of the other tables muted. From this high spot, he could see fading line of the summer sunset  and the lights of the ships moving in the water.

“Enjoy your meal?” Sips’ voice interrupted his reverie. Ross swiveled his attention back, and put on a smile.

“Yes, sir.” Ross glanced down at his plate. Instead of steak, they’d served him lobster quenelles. Everything just came to the table. There were no menus. He wondered if Sips had ordered for them, or if the restaurant was just used to him.

“It was incredible.” He certainly couldn’t complain, and not just because it was his boss.

Truthfully it was one of the best tasting meals of his entire life. From the tiny salad of miniature vegetables to the cold vichyssoise to the delicate, buttery popovers and the lobster quenelles, everything was finer and more exquisite than anything Ross ever ate. Each course came with a new glass of wine, reds and whites that Ross couldn’t name. He did not want to know what it cost. He only hoped tomorrow’s dinner of instant noodles wouldn’t seem like a terrible fall from grace. 

A waiter moved in, pouring new glasses of wine. The endless wine made Ross nervous, and he drank his slowly. This was dinner with his boss, he couldn't let it go to his head. Ross held his glass delicately, the stem so fragile in his hand he was afraid he might accidentally snap it. 

“To the future success of Sipsco Offworld,” Sips toasted. Their glasses chimed softly. The new wine was sweet, golden and almost syrupy. It smelled like flowers, and the bubbles burst on his tongue.

Another waiter laid a plate in front of Sips. Ross tried not to move, but his eyes darted around. The table in front of him remained empty, and Ross stared enviously at the slice of cake in front of Sips.

Raspberries were sandwiched with frosting between two golden layers of cake. The frosting was bright white, with little flecks of orange and yellow across the top and more raspberries spilling onto the plate. A spiral of orange peel decorated the plate, alongside a candied flower. It looked like something from a show, perfectly composed and tempting. Ross set down his glass before he clenched it too hard, and shattered it.

Sips picked up a fork, and took a bite of the cake. Ross sat silently, his back itching, and hoped a waiter would suddenly appear with a dessert for him.

“You have a sweet tooth, don’t you?” Sips looked at him appraisingly. “You eat a lot of candy bars.”

Ross hoped he wasn’t blushing. He told himself it was the wine, making him flush.

“I do, yes, sir.” He laughed quietly, one hand resting in his lap in a tight fist. 

“Hmm.” Sips watched him, and Ross wondered if this was another one of his fucked up tests. He forced his hand to open, smoothed it over the lace.

“Could I…” Ross tried to stop himself from speaking.

“You want a bite?” Sips raised an eyebrow, cutting another piece with his fork. The heavy silverware slid easily through the cake, catching a raspberry and leaving a bright red smear in the frosting.

“Please,” Ross asked. He swallowed the longing, trying to sound casual, and watched Sips carefully section off another bite of cake. He lifted his fork, and looked at Ross before he extended his arm. The cake hovered in the air, a thick smear of frosting along the back, and a raspberry clinging to it. Ross could smell the vanilla. He hesitantly lifted a hand to take the fork.

“No,” Sips said, and Ross froze. “Keep your hands in your lap.” The fork remained steadily suspended between them, and Sips’ eyes bored into Ross. For a moment they stared at each other, and Ross wondered if this was really happening.

“Try it,” Sips encouraged, the faintest smile on his face. Ross took a nervous breath, steadying himself with a hand on the edge of his chair. He leaned forward, trying to watch both Sips and the fork. Carefully, he put his mouth to the fork and bit down. He didn’t want to clank his teeth against the tines. Sips continued to stare at him, and Ross felt the heat in cheeks. Once Ross managed to drag the cake slowly off the fork, Sips set it down on the table. Ross closed his eyes and chewed, savoring the hint of orange mixed with vanilla and the fresh raspberry. The fruit reminded him of home. It was impossibly good, somehow tasting like birthday cakes and summer all at once. The cake was moist, and very sweet, as if it had been soaked in sugar.  


The touch of Sips’ hand on his face startled him. Ross’ eyes flew open, but he remained still. He’d learned at work that Sips didn’t like jumpy employees.

“Got some frosting on your face.” Sips’ thumb brushed over the corner of Ross’ mouth. “Wouldn’t want to waste it, not when it tastes so good.” 

Ross tried to agree, and couldn’t make a sound. Sips pushed his thumb into Ross’ mouth, watching him. His heart beat thudded in his ears, and Ross tentatively touched his tongue to the smear of sweetness on Sips’ thumb. He didn’t know what this game was supposed to be. Sips just watched him with that unnerving, calculating expression, his mouth pulled up in a one sided smile. The now familiar mix of fear and excitement made him shiver. Ross sucked the frosting off Sips’ finger. Deliberately, Sips pressed his thumb down on Ross' tongue. His other fingers curved around Ross' jaw, holding him in place. Ross' heart thudded uncomfortably until Sips pulled away.  


When he sat back, Ross realized a waiter stood beside their table ready to clear their used plates and glasses. He looked down, hoping the blush in his cheeks wasn’t obvious. It occurred to him now that any other table could have seen that as well. Ross drank down the rest of his wine, and tried not to look directly at anyone.

“Tell Jacques the meal was excellent,” Sips remarked, handing something to the waiter. The man bowed, murmuring words too low for Ross to make out. He twisted his napkin in his lap, the sweetness of the cake still on his lips. Maybe if he smiled, Sips would give him another bite.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/double-layer-vanilla-buttermilk-cake-with-raspberries-and-orange-cream-cheese-frosting>


	7. Tomato Toast with Peaches, Mozzarella and Mint

Ross couldn’t resist buttering the end of the brioche loaf and cramming it into his mouth as he sliced tomatoes. They were an unusual purplish red, almost over ripe. Seeds spilled onto the cutting board. They were tiny and yellow. He stared at the large tomato slices for a moment, sitting next to a carefully sliced peach, and then cut the circles in half. Now they were closer to the size of the peach slivers. 

He opened the enormous fridge, and pulled out the mozzarella he bought yesterday at the midtown Whole Foods. It was marshmallow soft and fresh, easy to cut into thick slices. The smell of the toast crisping in the oven rose thick and warm. Ross slipped on an oven mitt and grabbed the tongs to carefully lift them off the rack. 

Moving quickly, he buttered the toast slices before they cooled. Each one was stacked with mozzarella, tomato and peaches. Ross tried to arrange them evenly, but also so that they looked pretty. He quickly cut a mint leaf into narrow strips, trying not to poke his thumb with the tip of the knife. Carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration, he sprinkled the mint over the toasts. Next was the salt, and finally a swirl of the olive oil. The fancy olive oil place had talked him into buying three different bottles and this one was infused with meyer lemon. Ross loved the flavor, and just wanted to put it on everything. 

Humming to himself, Ross arranged the toast on plates while the espresso machine heated itself. Sips had a surprisingly nice home machine, though like everything else in the kitchen it was pristine and unused before Ross came along. He was still experimenting to find the right settings.

His phone beeped on the counter, and Ross flipped open the message notification. It was a selfie of Trott making an exaggerated face of dismay next to an ice sculpture.

_ Who the fuck needs an ice horse at brunch??? _

Ross snorted, and texted back.

_ Have fun at the country club!! _

_ The food is terrible I wish I was with you _

_ I’ll make you peaches when you get back to the city   _

Ross snapped a picture of the toasts, and set the phone down so he could pull some espresso shots. He was just steaming the milk when Sips ambled into the kitchen, pulling a fluffy green bathrobe around himself. 

“Morning,” Sips mumbled, still wiping sleep from his face. Unshaven, and barefoot, Sips still managed to exude an aura of confidence and casual ease. Ross wondered if that came with the money, or if it was part of the act.

“Morning, Sips.” Ross poured the milk into the mug. He couldn’t really manage anything fancier than a swirl. Maybe there was a barista class somewhere he could take, where they taught you how to make latte art. The girl at the place by the office always put shapes in his coffee. One time she drew a dog for him. Ross had no earthly idea how that was possible.

Sips took the proffered mug with a grunt of thanks. It was half past ten, but they’d been up rather late the night before. Both Smith and Trott were out of town with family obligations, and Ross had taken Sips up on the offer to stay with him. It meant a spending spree at the grocery store and the Saturday morning farmer’s market, as Ross was not about to pass up the chance to use that giant kitchen. Sips insisted on taking them out to dinner the night before, but Ross otherwise cooked happily all weekend.

“How long have you been up?” Sips asked. 

“Not long.” Ross shrugged. He felt utterly lazy, not going to the gym this weekend. He told himself the sex counted for burning calories. 

“What’s breakfast?”

“Kind of like a caprese, but with peaches and on toast.” Ross stared at the plate, and wondered if maybe next time he could use honey instead of olive oil. He couldn’t resist tweaking a recipe.

“Mmm.” Sips took a bite of toast, and closed his eyes. Ross tried not to stare, busying himself with washing off the knives and wiping crumbs off the counter.

“This is pretty good for a breakfast without bacon,” Sips finally said.

“I can make bacon if you want…”

“Nah, come over here.” 

Ross walked around the kitchen island to where Sips stood. He let himself be pulled into Sips’ warm embrace, finding it impossible to resist snuggling into him.

“This is fine by me,” Sips said, taking another bite. “Thank you.” 

Ross leaned on him for a few moments, savoring the quiet. He liked these moments.

“You’re gonna get crumbs on you if you stay there,” Sips warned. Ross mock shuddered, and let go. He reached for his own toast, anxious to taste the finished product.

“Well, there’s always that fancy ass shower you’ve got.” Ross grinned. 

“I’ll have to give you back to Trott and Smith,” Sips sighed. His eyes gleamed with amusement, the laugh lines around them crinkling. “Might as well get the maximum enjoyment out of the weekend, have you scrub my back first.”

“Frankly I’m surprised you haven’t installed one of those giant Roman baths up here.”

“The planning permits, _ugh_.” Sips raised his cup. “I’d probably have to buy out the floor below me. But maybe at one of the other places…”

Ross shook his head, eating another bite of peach and tomato. The fresh mozzarella had such a light flavor, but it really helped unite everything. Definitely better than cream cheese. Though cream cheese might be good if he wanted to make a sweeter version of this… Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Sips watching him.

“Ross.”

“Hmm?”

“Let’s go back to bed.” Sips hand rested on his hip, sliding under the waistband of Ross’ sweatpants. The touch made him shiver with pleasant anticipation.

“Back to bed already? You're getting old.”

Sips grinned.

“Who said I wanted to sleep?” Sips rumbled, leaning closer to Ross. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Ross’ jaw, hand sliding around to squeeze Ross’ ass. Ross carefully wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and turned into the embrace. The toast would keep just fine for another hour or so, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/tomato-toast-with-peaches-mozzarella-and-mint-56389822>


End file.
